


I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)

by ladysisyphus



Category: Inception (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After long enough, he'd learned to recognize shared dreams by their persistent logic. One mind might make a place where hamburgers floated leisurely through the air, or theatre curtains opened onto graveyards, or your mother sounded like Humphrey Bogart, but two minds in coordination knew that just wasn't true. So when the martini in his hand <i>stopped</i> being made of liquid piano music, he knew he wasn't alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted here](http://pinstripesuit.livejournal.com/605597.html?thread=3594141#t3594141)

After long enough, he'd learned to recognize shared dreams by their persistent logic. One mind might make a place where hamburgers floated leisurely through the air, or theatre curtains opened onto graveyards, or your mother sounded like Humphrey Bogart, but two minds in coordination knew that just wasn't true. So when the martini in his hand _stopped_ being made of liquid piano music, he knew he wasn't alone.

Arthur turned on his barstool in time to see Eames stride through the door, and even though the cocky bastard obviously hadn't bothered to read the sign announcing the black tie dress code, he hadn't bothered trying to put on someone else's face, either; awkward dress was one thing, but the attempt at deception would have been insulting in the extreme. "Nice place you've got here," he grinned, running his fingers along the surface of the bar. Everyone in the place stopped cold and stared at him, but Arthur took a deep breath and they all resumed their conversations, allowing -- at least for the moment -- the conscious mind to vouch for the intruder.

"It's three different places," said Arthur, who poured his glass out on the ground; as it evaporated, the small jazz trio in the corner started playing again as though they'd never stopped. "All within a half-mile radius of my college dorm."

"You went to _jazz_ clubs at university? No wonder you're still a virgin." Eames drummed his fingers on an empty highball glass, trying to catch the bartender's attention. "Scotch and soda, please." He frowned as the bow-tied man kept on running a dishrag around the rim of a wine glass without even lifting his head. "Hey, mate. Scotch and soda. ...You know? Scotch? With the soda? You do that here?"

"Scotch and soda," Arthur said, and right away the bartender snapped to life, nodding respectfully to Arthur before starting in on Eames' order. The tag on his vest read **Charlie** , and there'd never been anyone like him in _any_ of the clubs Arthur had frequented, but letting shared dreams be populated by real people was a recipe for disaster. Stereotypes were much easier, and much more easily seen through if necessary.

Momentarily, Charlie put the drink on the bar in front of Arthur, and Arthur slid it to Eames, whose smug smile hadn't gone anywhere. "Got him trained nicely, haven't you?" He took a sip, then gave an appraising nod. "Tell him next time, a little heavier on the scotch."

"If you can figure out a way to send my subconscious to bartending school, have at it." Arthur took a full glass next to his own empty one and poured, and while the liquid grew to fill the second glass, it never diminshed in the first. A well-placed paradox meant never having to ask for a refill. "Should I ask what you're doing here?"

Eames shrugged. "Saw you in the lab all passed out, strapped down...."

"And you didn't kick me over. That's very big of you." Another patron, this one a well-dressed older woman, sauntered up behind Eames with murder in her eyes, and Arthur reached for her hand; he drew her knuckles to his lips, and she backed down. It probably wasn't such a good idea, teaching his internal defenses to be so accepting of his opinions on strangers, but he wasn't in the mood to have his relaxation disturbed by mob violence, and anyway, his main defense against extraction was not knowing anything anyone wanted to extract in the first place.

Sipping his drink but looking just the slightest bit unnerved by the close call, Eames added, "Plus, your Big Brother Cobb was giving me his patented hairy eyeball every time I got my feet too close to your chair. He's very protective of you, you know." 

Arthur had better ways to spend his energy than debating the difference between being protective and being just a decent human being, so he shrugged and took a drink from his own glass. It tasted like the way he imagined gin should taste, not the way it actually tasted, which was why he only ever ordered it here. To his great credit, Eames let the matter drop, choosing instead to lean his back against the bar and watch the passers-by going on about their own imagined lives, his smile highlighted by the silver-blue glow from the great aquarium suspended above the bar. That hadn't been in _any_ of the real-world places, to hell with Eames and his cracks about Arthur's lacking creative impulse. He might not be an Architect-grade designer, but he could still make a nice, quiet place to drink.

The band finished their number, pausing just long enough for the crowd's polite response before launching into a second, this one with a slow blues-y beat. Arthur turned just in time to see his projections push aside a few tables to reveal a dance floor he hadnt even known was there. It was, he supposed, what he got for leaving major design decisions up to his unconscious mind. A few couples embraced and started to sway against one another, and Eames grinned. "Might I have this dance?" he asked, extending his hand.

Arthur eyed him skeptically, trying to gauge how much of this was Eames' poking fun at his expense. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Come on." Eames waved him on and stood. "I've even got this cute little brunette in my repitoire, you'll love her. Little button nose, legs up to _here_ \--"

" _No_ ," said Arthur again, this time with more conviction. A spotlight came up near the band on a tall, redheaded woman who sounded exactly like Nina Simone; obviously, Eames didn't know any better either. "If you're going to be in my head, you can at least do me the courtesy of wearing your own face."

He thought that might put an end to things, but instead, Eames grinned wider and took Arthur's hand, pulling him to his feet and across the few steps to the dance floor. Surprise carried Arthur forward and into Eames' arms, and when he found his bearings again, their chests were pressed close, and Eames' hand was on his back just beneath the tie of his vest. "I'm sure they'll notice me any second now," said Eames, leading Arthur back into the rough beginnings of a waltz, "and then they'll kill me out, and you can go on drinking by yourself." He was right; Arthur's broken concentration must have read as panic, and the other couples on the floor were starting to look at his partner with undisguised hostility. "But right up until then, we're dancing."

Only through the greatest show of self-control he'd exercised in months did Arthur manage to keep a begrudging look about himself even as he started into the rhythm of the step. He'd never taken ballroom lessons, and certainly had no experience at dancing backward, but Eames was talented enough to keep them both in steady, easy motion. Still, letting an affront like this go unaddressed would just invite greater insult later. "If I'm taller than you are, why do _you_ get to lead?"

"Oh, you want to lead?" asked Eames, holding tighter to Arthur's right hand and pulling him close enough that Arthur could feel Eames' breath on his cheek. "Then next time, _you_ ask."

The projections allowed this for as long as it took the band to get to the song's bridge, at which time they started to get restless, and thirty seconds later, they had all gathered and torn Eames from Arthur's arms. Eames didn't protest this violent response, nor did he ever take his eyes off Arthur even as one of the more unsavory characters populating Arthur's mind pulled a gun and put a slug right between Eames' eyes, sending him first jerking back and then fading from the dream entirely.

Two minutes later, Arthur got the kick.


End file.
